Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

And with that, he turned toward the bulkhead and would not speak again.

Rolvaag ,

10:00 A.M.

VIOLENT dawn rose beyond the windows of the bridge, revealing a wind-torn sea. A procession of gigantic swells, undulating, remorseless, came out of the storm-wracked western horizon and disappeared into the east. The panteonero continued to build, a screaming wind that seemed to rip pieces of sea from the tops of the waves and send them flying, shredding the water into white sheets of foam. The great ship heaved up, heaved down, rolling and pitching in agonizing slow motion.

Eli Glinn stood alone at the windows, hands clasped behind his back. He gazed out at the violence, conscious of an internal serenity he had rarely felt since the project began. It had been a project fraught with unexpected turns and surprises. Even here, on the ship, the meteorite continued to bedevil them: Howell had returned from the sick bay with reports of six dead and Garza injured. Nevertheless, EES had succeeded. It was one of the greatest engineering feats ever.

He would not care to repeat such a project again.

He turned. Britton and the other ship's officers were glued to the surface radar, tracking the Almirante Ramirez.

Lloyd hovered behind them. It was a tense-looking group. Clearly, his assurances about Comandante Vallenar had not convinced them. A natural, if illogical, position to take. But Glinn's proprietary profiling program had never been wrong in a critical prediction. Besides, he knew Vallenar. He had met the man on his own turf. He had seen the iron discipline on his ship. He had seen the man's skill as a naval officer, his overweening pride, his love of country. The man will not cross the line. Not for a meteorite. At the last minute would turn; the moment of crisis would pass; and they would be on their way home.

"Captain," he asked, "what course do you propose to take us out of Drake Passage?"

"As soon as the Ramirez turns around, I'll order a three three zero bearing to bring us back into the lee of South America and get us out of this gale."

Glinn nodded approvingly. "That will be soon."

Britton's eyes dropped back to the screen. She said nothing more.

Glinn strolled over and stood with Lloyd behind Captain Britton. On the electronic chart, the green dot that represented Vallenar was fast approaching international waters. Glinn couldn't help but smile. It was like watching a horse race on television for which he alone knew the outcome.

"Any radio contact from the Ramirez?"

"No," Britton replied. "They've been maintaining radio silence throughout. Not even making contact with their own base. Banks heard the base CO order him back hours ago."

Naturally, thought Glinn. It fit the profile.

He allowed his gaze to linger on Britton: at the scattering of freckles on her nose, the poise in her bearing. She doubted his judgment now; but later she would see that he had been right. He thought about the courage she had shown, the unerring good sense, the coolness under pressure; the dignity, even while the bridge had been out of her command. This was a woman, he felt, he could finally trust. Perhaps this was the woman he had been looking for. It bore further consideration. He began thinking of the correct strategy to win her, potential avenues of failure, the likeliest path to success...

He glanced back at the radar screen. The dot was now just minutes from the line. He felt the faintest twinge of nervousness disturb his serenity. But all factors had been taken into account. The man would turn.

He looked deliberately away from the screen and strolled back to the window. It was an awesome sight. The waves were topping the maindeck, sweeping past in green sheets, streaming through the scuppers back into the sea. The Rolvaag, despite its movement, still felt quite stable — it was a following sea, which greatly aided stability. And the mass in the center tank acted as ballast.

He glanced at his watch. Any moment now, Britton would report that the Ramirez had turned back.

There was an audible sound, a collective murmur, from the group around the radar.

"The Ramirez is changing course," said Britton, glancing up.

Glinn nodded, suppressing a smile.

"Turning northerly to a zero six zero heading."

Glinn waited.

"He just crossed the line," Britton added in a low voice. "Still heading zero six zero."

Glinn hesitated. "Vallenar's navigation is slightly off. His rudder is damaged. He's clearly in the process of turning around."

The minutes ticked off. Glinn left the windows and once again approached the screen. The green dot continued heading east-northeast. It wasn't exactly chasing them now, but it wasn't turning around either. Strange. He felt another twinge.

"He will come around momentarily," murmured Glinn.

The silence lengthened as the Ramirez continued on its bearing.

"Maintaining speed," said Howell.

"Turn," muttered Lloyd.

The ship did not turn. Instead, it made another slight course correction to zero five zero.

"What's the hell's he doing?" Lloyd suddenly exploded.

Britton straightened up and looked squarely at Glinn. She said nothing, but words were unnecessary: Glinn could read her expression with crystal clarity.

Doubt passed through him like a spasm, to be quickly replaced by reassurance. He knew now what the problem was. "Of course. He's not only having trouble with his rudder, but his primitive navigation systems have been affected by our jamming. The man doesn't know where he is." He turned to his operative at the console. "Turn off the ECM. Let our friend find his bearings."

The operative typed a series of commands.

"He's twenty-five miles distant," said Howell. "We're just within range of his Exocets."

"I'm aware of that," murmured Glinn.

There was a moment in which the entire bridge fell silent. Then Howell spoke again. "We're being illuminated with targeting radar. He's getting our range and bearing."

For the first time since his final op as a Ranger, Glinn felt a certain kind of uneasiness in his gut. "Give him a few more minutes. Let him figure out we're both in international waters."

Again the minutes ticked by.

"For God's sake, bring the ECM back on line!" Britton said sharply.

"Another minute. Please."

"Exocet launched," said Howell.

"CIWS full auto," said Britton. "Prepare to launch chaff."

The minutes passed in frozen dread.

Then there was a sudden rattling of Gatling guns as the CIWS went into action, followed by a harrowing airburst off the starboard side of the ship. A tiny piece of shrapnel ticked off a bridge window, leaving a star.

"Still being painted with radar," said Howell.

"Mr. Glinn!" Britton cried. "Order your man to reemploy ECM!"

"Reemploy electronic countermeasures," Glinn said weakly, leaning on the console for support. He stared at the implacable green point on the screen, his mind racing to find the answers, to see the pattern. Vallenar had stayed true to form by launching a missile at them. This was a gesture Glinn had anticipated. Now, having rattled his saber in impotent rage, the man would turn back. Glinn waited, willing the ship to turn.

But the pulsing green dot continued on its course: not their own course, exactly, but a course that took it ever deeper into international waters.

"Eli?" It was Lloyd. His voice was strangely calm. With an effort, Glinn detached himself from a hundred avenues of speculation and met Lloyd's flinty stare.

"He's not going to turn," Lloyd said. "He's coming after us. For the kill."

Rolvaag ,

10:20 A.M.

SALLY BRITTON steeled herself, tuning out extraneous details one at a time, focusing her mind for what was to come. One look at Glinn's pale, shattered face had disarmed her anger and told her all she needed to know about the failure of his prediction. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the man, despite the unforgivable misjudgment which had now put all their lives in extreme danger. She herself had made a misjudgment, on a bridge similar to this one, not all that long ago.